Dead or Alive
by Sue Pokorny
Summary: A series of bodies have been turning up in the cemetery of an old west ghost town near Death Valley. When Dean disappears in the desert, can Sam discover the town's curse and find him before he becomes the next victim? Set in mid-late season 2.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: A series of bodies have been turning up in the cemetery of an old west ghost town near Death Valley. When Dean disappears in the desert, can Sam discover the town's curse and find his brother before he becomes the next victim?**

_This story has actually been in my head for quite some time – ever since I read an interview with Jensen Ackles about how he'd love to do a western and Kripke said he would love to go back and do a story on the origins of the Colt. I could so see Dean as an old west gun-fighter and the story was that the Colt was made for a Hunter... And so this story trickled from my brain until I simply had to write it. It ended up the longest, most complex story I've written so far. I hope ya'll enjoy it. _

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 1**

Sam Winchester slapped the local newspaper down onto the Formica table top as he slid into the booth opposite his brother. Dean was already halfway through a large stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and hashed-browns and barely acknowledged the intrusion.

"Thanks for waiting," the younger man said with a touch of frustration.

Dean glanced up and shrugged. "If you didn't take so long to do your hair, Princess…" he left the insult hanging, one side of his mouth turning up in a grin even as he shoveled another syrup laden forkful of pancakes into it.

"At least I have hair," Sam mumbled under his breath, averting his eyes from his brother's less than pleasing table manners. The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and he quickly ordered a ham and cheese omelet with a side of wheat toast. As he waited for his order, he turned the paper around toward his brother.

"While you were in here stuffing your face, I found us a job."

They had slowly wandered down the California coast after their brief stop in 'Hollyweird' as Dean had taken to calling it, not really being all that interested in working as they tried to get their feet back under them. The stop in Los Angeles was supposed to have been a vacation of sorts after the events in San Francisco, but had turned into a case as they found themselves confronted with a haunted movie set. The ghosts turned out to be a badly conceived revenge plot by the unappreciated screenwriter of a bad horror movie who had led the spirits to kill three people before turning on the writer himself.

Of course, Dean had turned out to be a fantastic production assistant, which had given them unlimited access to the soundstage while the movie was in production. He had also managed to hook up with the star of the movie, which the older man had considered quite a silver lining to the whole sordid mess.

After a distasteful stop in T.J., they had drifted back across the border, stopping for a nights rest in Ramona, just north of San Diego. A quick stop at the local paper stand near their motel had netted a few area newspapers and had given Sam a lead on a possible case.

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam's announcement, but didn't stop eating. "You did, huh?"

"Uh huh," Sam pointed at the newspaper that lay on the table.

"The Inyo Register," Dean read around a mouthful of hashbrowns.

Sam grabbed the paper, his expression one of disgust at his brothers eating habits. "There's a story of a succession of men who have been found dead in Death Valley," Sam explained, pausing as the waitress deposited his breakfast on the table in front of him. He smiled his thanks and grabbed for the salt shaker.

"Ooo, Sam. People dying in the desert. Spooky."

Sam pinched his lips together and gave his brother a look of irritation. "Except that there have been over forty men who've died in the last one hundred years, and they've all been found in or around the cemetery in an old ghost town smack dab in the middle of the Mojave."

Dean chewed thoughtfully for a moment before nodded once. "Okay. That's a little weird, I'll give you that. But there's got to be something more that makes you think it's our kind of weird."

Sam swallowed a forkful of eggs before answering. "I called the local P.D. and, according to the very helpful and very attractive sounding Officer Paloma, the last victim died of blood loss."

That got Dean's attention. "Vampires?"

Sam shook his head. "I doubt it. The victims seemed to have lost a lot of blood, but there were no obvious wounds. The local M.E. couldn't explain it."

Dean's eyes widened. "Huh. That is weird."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "And also according to Officer Paloma, the coroner is putting these deaths down as exposure for lack of a better explanation."

"Figures," Dean said with a shake of his head. "Officer Palladin seems very helpful."

"Paloma."

"Whatver."

Sam shrugged, suddenly interested in the omelet. "She seemed to be frustrated at the lack of cooperation she'd been getting from the authorities on the case. She was basically told to mark it up to desert scavengers and let it go. I think she's just looking for someone to hear her out."

Dean couldn't suppress a grin. "And you, being the caring kind of boyscout that you are, promised her a shoulder to cry on."

"Something like that," Sam mumbled as he shoveled the last of the omelet into his mouth. After a moment, he swallowed, took a drink from his coffee cup and sat back against the booth. "Come on, Dean. You said you wanted to head toward Vegas, and Lone Pine is right on our way."

Dean pushed his own plate away and sat back, his posture mirroring his brother's. He pursed his lips as he ran the information through his head. "Okay," he nodded. "We'll check it out." He clapped his hands in front of him and rubbed them together as his grin widened. "Besides, I've always wanted to check out a real live old west ghost town."

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

"So, Sammy," Dean leaned against the driver's side door, throwing a quick glance toward his brother on his right. "This ever helpful Deputy Palumbo –"

"Paloma."

"Whatever. Why was she jonesing to give you all this confidential info?" Dean lifted the side of his mouth in a grin as he kept his eyes carefully trained on the black asphalt road before them. "You been working on your sexy phone voice?"

Sam didn't bother to look up from John's journal he'd been leafing through ever since his last call to the Lone Pine deputy. "No, Dean," he said in a bored monotone. "I leave all the phone sex in your capable hands."

Dean pursed his lips momentarily and gave a short nod of accord. "What about Deputy --"

"Paloma." Sam cut in before his brother could slaughter the poor woman's name again.

"Paloma," Dean repeated with a smirk. "Are you gonna leave her in my capable hands, too?"

Sam gave a long-suffering sigh and raised his head. "Dean," he responded in a tight voice. "Deputy Paloma is going to be helping us with this case. I think you need to keep your hands -- and whatever else your depraved imagination can come up with – away from her until we figure this out."

"So, why's this chick all girl Friday for you?"

Sam rolled his eyes and forced himself to ignore his brother's childish baiting. "Apparently, she's been sending e-mails and phoning the state crime lab, trying to get someone to listen to her about these deaths. She's pretty smart. She knows something weird is going on, but nobody is interested in a bunch of bodies in the desert. And when she tries to connect them to the ghost town…

"Don't tell me," Dean said knowingly. "They laugh and brush her off without even hearing her out."

"Right."

"So what kind of line did you feed her?"

Sam frowned and turned toward his brother. "Line?"

"Yeah," Dean responded. "You didn't just tell her we were hunters who specialize in disposing of creepy ghosts and evil, invisible, blood-sucking monsters. Who does she think we are?"

"Forensics investigators with the FBI."

"Aww, Sammy. Suits? It's a hundred degrees out there!" Dean gestured to the brown landscape they had been driving through since passing Barstow. The arid desert was interesting if only for the drastic contrast to the green and gold of the Midwest. But, after half an hour, it all started to look the same and the heated wafts of air coming through the open windows of the Impala made him almost long for the cold, snowy plains of Kansas.

Almost.

"No Dean," Sam explained slowly as if speaking to a child. "Forensics. Think CSI."

Dean's eyebrows shot up at the reference. "Cool! I get to be Grissom. He's the man. You can be that Horatio guy from Miami." He gave Sam a lopsided grin. "You'd better start practicing whipping off those sunglasses, dude."

Sam just shook his head in exasperation. "All pop culture references aside, I think the FBI I.D.'s we have will work just fine, Dean. Besides, if she believes we're forensics experts, nobody will question us poking around the crime scene."

"The ghost town?"

"Yeah," Sam chuckled at the excitement in his brother's voice. "The town was called Ballarat." He pulled a few sheets of paper he had printed out back at the motel. "It was a supply and recreation center for the miners who were working the Paramint Mountain mines near Death Valley around the turn of the century."

"Gold or silver?"

"Huh?" Sam looked up, giving his brother a look of confusion.

"The mines?" Dean repeated. "Were they gold or silver?"

Sam stared at him. "I don't know. What could that possibly matter?" He shook his head. "Dean could we just focus on the facts here?"

"Fine, Killjoy," the older man muttered. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat as he got himself back on track. "You said these victims died from massive blood loss."

Sam nodded. "That's not the official C.O.D., but according to deputy Paloma that was the M.E.'s initial finding."

"So the million dollar question here is how exactly do you bleed to death without any open wounds?"

Sam let out a breath through his nose. "I have no idea."

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

The Inyo County Sheriff's Department was located in a non-descript brick building at the end of Main Street in Lone Pine. As Dean pulled the Impala into a diagonal space a few yards from the glass front door of the building, he leaned down and eyed the place nervously.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate small town law enforcement?"

"Yes, Dean," Sam replied in a tired voice. "On numerous occasions. Can I count on you playing nice or should I just handcuff you to the car?"

Dean smirked at his brother. "Pretty kinky for you, Sammy." At his brother's irritated glare, he held up a hand in surrender. "Fine. I'll be a good little fibbie. You just make sure you keep it all business with Deputy Pamela, Romeo."

"Paloma."

"Whatever."

Sam sighed in frustration. "Please just let me do the talking, Dean."

The older man pulled at the handle and shouldered open the Chevy's door. "Fine, Horatio. Don't forget your sunglasses."

Ignoring his brother's lame CSI reference, Sam adjusted his shirt and headed for the double glass doors. Seeing as how they were posing as Forensic investigators, they had decided to forgo the suits and instead, wear a simple 'geek' wardrobe of jeans, t-shirts and tucked-in button downs, although Sam had been forced to scrounge up a belt for his brother, who had apparently lost his sometime ago and never found the need to replace it.

The air-conditioned coolness of the station was a welcome relief from the blazing heat of the desert town. Despite the air conditioning, there were fans placed around the small reception area, ruffling the notices and posters pinned to the walls and bulletin boards near the doors.

"Can I help you gentlemen?"

Both men turned to the far wall to see a young, dark haired woman stand up from the paper-strewn desk. She was about 5'6", with wavy chestnut hair pulled back into a low ponytail. There was s smattering of freckles across her nose making her seem way to young for the short sleeved, brown deputy's uniform she wore.

"Um, yeah," Sam said taking a step forward. "We're looking for Deputy Paloma?"

The smile that spread across her face changed her from a pretty girl next door to a certified beauty. "You must be Sam." She held her hand out and stepped around the desk. "I'm Elizabeth Paloma, but you can call me Ellie."

Sam shook her hand, his own smile answering hers. "Nice to meet you, uh, Ellie. This is my partner, Dean." Sam indicated his brother, but didn't move aside, nor did he, Dean noted with amusement, take his eyes off the pretty deputy.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Ellie's smile was genuine, so Dean returned one just as real.

"Sam says you think there's something strange going on with these deaths in the ghost town." Dean had learned a long time ago that if someone wanted to talk, all they needed was a bit of a prompt.

"Well, officially, the latest victim died of exposure." She looked around as she lowered her voice. "But I've been doing some research and I've found more than five unexplained deaths in the last decade alone."

"It is a desert," Dean decided to play devil's advocate. "I'm no expert, but it's not really that strange for people to get turned around out there."

"No," she agreed. "And don't get me wrong. We have our share of legitimate deaths from nature. Dehydration, sun stroke, exposure, not to mention snakes, scorpions, coyotes and any one of a hundred other predators that call the desert home."

"But you don't think these deaths fall into those categories?" Sam urged her on.

"No," Ellie shook her head. "These five men were all found in the same place."

"Ballarat."

She nodded at Sam's observation.

"More specifically, Ballarat's cemetery." She crossed her arms on her chest and leaned back against the desk. "I could only find coroner's reports on two of the other victims, but the both men had had massive blood loss before they died. But there was no indication in the reports of any actual wounds."

"And it was the same with this victim?"

Ellie nodded. "The M.E. and the Sheriff have decided to list the official cause of death as exposure, but according to my friend in the morgue, this guy was drained almost dry."

The Winchester's exchanged a look of interest. "Any idea how that could happen?"

Ellie shrugged at Dean's question. "None," she admitted. "I was hoping you guys could help me out with that."

"That's the plan," Dean smiled again and Ellie ducked her head, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Is there anything you can tell us about the ghost town? Any legends or history?"

Ellie pursed her lips for a moment. "Well, there are a lot of old stories about Ballarat." She shrugged. "I mean it is a ghost town. It has to have a few ghosts, right?" She took a deep breath. "I know the basic story. The townspeople betrayed the local sheriff and he was killed. His wife was a gypsy or something and she cursed them." She looked from one man to the other. "It's just a local legend they use to scare the tourists, though."

Dean turned to his brother and raised his eyebrows, the tilt of his head an unspoken acknowledgement.

"Ellie," Sam dipped his head, unconsciously trying to minimize his intimidating height. "Is there anyone who could tell us about the town? Anyone who may know more than local legend?"

"There's old Mac."

"Old Mac?"

Ellie nodded. "Yeah. He lived here most of his life. I think he's actually a descendant or something of one of the townspeople. At least that's what he always claimed. Nobody ever really called him on it."

Dean pulled out a small pad of paper. "Does this Old Mac still live here?"

"I heard he moved to Beatty. That's in Nevada, right across the border just a few hours from here."

"Think you can get me an address?"

"Sure," Ellie moved back around the desk to the computer. "But what's Mac going to be able to tell you about these dead bodies?"

Dean smiled and tilted his head at the girl. "A lot of these old legends have some facts built into them if you know what to look for. Besides it never hurts to have all the information you can, right? Maybe this guy can tell us something about the town we won't be able to find in any history book." He shrugged as she handed him a small slip of paper with an address. "At least it's worth the few hours to see what he has to say."

As he turned back to the doorway, Sam placed a hand on his arm and lowered his voice to a whisper. "And just what am I supposed to do while you're playing twenty questions with grampa?"

Dean looked over his shoulder at the young deputy, a suggestive grin lifting one side of his mouth. "Maybe you could find a way to mix business with pleasure, Sammy." He patted the younger man on the chesta couple of times with the back of his hand. "Just use your imagination."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Dead or Alive

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 2**

Dean slapped his hands on the steering wheel as the engine choked and coughed, finally sputtering to an ominous silence. He leaned forward, closing his eyes, allowing his forehead to rest on the wheel as he tried to quell the anger burning up into his chest.

It's not like his baby had done this on purpose. It was a car, and cars – no matter how well maintained or cared for – tended to break down under extreme conditions.

Dean was pretty sure the Mojave Desert could be considered an extreme condition.

The Impala had driven him faithfully all over the country, never asking for much more than a tank full of gas and an occasional loving hand under the hood. But the old girl was beginning to show her age, and despite the care Dean took to keep her in top shape, it was impossible to predict some types of malfunctions even with the kind of diligence and attention Dean showered upon her.

Of course, Sam would probably be having a good laugh about now. Dean's pride in his baby far surpassed what the younger man thought healthy in regards to a driver/car relationship, but the Impala was more than just a car. It was the closest thing to a home that Dean had ever had, the only thing that he had always been able to rely on. Mom had left him, Sam had left him, Dad had left him… but the Impala had always been there waiting for him, ready and willing to take him wherever he needed to be – even those times when he'd had no idea exactly where that was.

So it was even more disheartening that she had let him down now.

He took a deep breath and reached down to pull at the hood release. Throwing open the door, Dean stepped onto the weathered black asphalt, his mouth drawing into a tight line as he felt his boots almost sink into the superheated tarmac. Leaving the door open, he moved to the front of the car and levered the hood up, waving away the stream of white steam that escaped from the overheated engine compartment.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled as he quickly noted the problem. An inch long crack in the hose running to the radiator was still leaking fluid, the coolant sizzling as it splashed onto the searing engine only to evaporate upon contact. Carefully using the end of his t-shirt, he palmed open the radiator cap, allowing the steam to escape from its confinement and dissipate into the blazing desert sky.

He ran a hand over his face to remove the sweat that had already built up on his skin. He could temporarily fix the hose with a simple wind of duct tape, but the engine was already overheated and he only had a small amount of water in the trunk which he doubted would be enough to get him back across the desert to Lone Pine or to his initial destination of Beatty without causing catastrophic damage to the engine block.

Moving back around to the open driver's door, Dean leaned into the stifling interior and quickly retrieved his cell phone. Sliding the phone open, he let out a sigh, noting the "No Service" icon lit up across the screen. Apparently cell phone towers were not plentiful in the desert. He tossed the device back into the car with a bit more force than necessary before turning and plopping himself sideways onto the seat. He leaned forward and placed his face in his hands as he considered his options.

He could patch the hose, fill the radiator up with the little water he had and hope it would hold long enough to get him back to town. But, after the time and effort it had taken to get the Impala back on the road after it had been totaled by Yellow Eye's demonic semi, Dean was not inclined to take the chance of destroying the engine just to get himself out of the heat.

He could wait, and hope another car would come by so that he could hitch a ride, but he hadn't seen another vehicle on the road since he left Lone Pine. He leaned forward, turning his head left then right, his eyes seeing nothing but the dancing waves of heat shimmering off the deserted highway.

He could wait until sunset when the blazing heat would give way to cooler temperatures, giving him a much better chance of making it back to civilization without damaging the car. He checked his watch, groaning out loud as he read the display. It was just after ten-thirty a.m. The blistering sun was moving its way high into the cloudless sky and there was no sign of any relief. Even if he waited in the shade of the car, the oppressive heat would suck him dry – not to mention the hours of boredom he would have to endure before night fell this late in the season.

Of course there was the chance that Sam would start to worry when he couldn't contact him, but Dean knew his brother had a tendency to loose all track of time when he got his nose into books – not to mention the distraction of the pretty deputy Paloma -- so he wasn't about to count on a timely rescue from the younger hunter. Besides, Dean had the car, how exactly was Sam going to get to him even if he could figure out where he was and the predicament he'd found himself in?

Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Dean knew himself well enough to know that he would not be able to sit around all day and wait for someone to come to his rescue. He hated leaving the Impala out here in the middle of the desert, but in his estimation, it had taken him a little over an hour to get this far, it should only take him four or five hours to get back on foot. He was pretty sure that wandering off into the Mojave during the hottest part of the day would get him a lecture on common sense from Sam, but by his calculations, the jug in the trunk held enough water to keep him from becoming dehydrated and, if he stuck to the road, he should have no problem finding his way back by late afternoon, leaving ample time to get a tow truck back out to rescue the Impala.

Of course, Winchester luck could play into the equation, but after all the crap he'd been through since Dad died, wasn't it time for that luck to finally throw something good his way?

His mind made up, Dean leaned back and pulled the keys from the ignition, then forced himself from the scalding leather seat. Moving back to the front of the car, he removed the brace bar and allowed the hood to slam shut on its own, pushing it down once to make sure it was secure. With slow, easy movements, he rounded to the trunk and opened it, scrounging around for a moment until he found the small jug of water off to the side. It was warm, but it was wet, so Dean opted not to complain.

His favorite knife was already secured into its sleeve in his boot and he pulled his Desert Eagle from the bottom weapons tray, checking the clip before securing it into the back of his jeans. The added bulk of the gun would probably be uncomfortable in the rising heat, but Dean was a practical man and never went into any situation unprepared. Besides, the gun was like an old friend. Even if he didn't need it, it would set his mind at ease knowing it was within reach.

He was already sweating through his t-shirt but he knew enough about the desert to know he needed to protect his skin from the blazing sun. Pulling a long sleeved shirt from the wrinkled collection stuffed into the corner of the trunk, Dean ironically thanked his brother for not getting around to the laundry this week. Sliding into the shirt, he flapped it a few times in hopes of creating a slight breeze, but only managed to disperse the stifling hot air a bit.

Digging around a bit more, he was able to come up with an old baseball cap of Sam's. It wouldn't do much to keep the sun off his neck, but it would help keep it off his face and out of his eyes. Placing the cap on his head, he stepped back and closed the trunk, pocketing the keys before turning to squint down the road.

The distant desert shimmered in the waves of unrelenting heat, turning the barren landscape into a dancing mirage of browns and blues. Dean felt the heat surround him like a blanket, knowing that it wasn't going to get any cooler anytime soon. With a long sigh, he picked up the half full jug of water and stepped forward, away from the Impala and into the Mojave.

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

"So how did you become a cop?" Sam leaned forward in the booth, his hands playing with the condensation on the glass of tea placed before him.

Ellie smiled and twirled the straw in her own glass. "My dad was a detective in San Diego. It's really all I ever wanted to do. Once I graduated from UCLA, I came out here and took a job in the department. I've always loved the desert, so it seemed like the perfect place to start my career." She shrugged uncomfortably as if talking about herself was something she was unaccustomed to doing. "What about you? How did you get into forensics?"

Sam shifted in his seat as the waitress approached with a pitcher of iced tea. "I've always liked puzzles and mysteries," he said carefully. "My dad was a sort of investigator, too. Guess it rubbed off. There's a lot of unexplained stuff out there and me and Dean, we try to find a way to fix it."

"Sounds like you move around a lot."

"Yeah. We try to keep moving. There are a lot of people out there who need help. Dean believes it's our mission to help as many as we can."

"He sounds very… gallant."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean? He's… Dean." He shrugged as if that explained it. "He's an acquired taste, trust me."

Ellie laughed and Sam couldn't help but smile in return. "So tell me about this legend."

Ellie took a sip of her tea and collected her thoughts. They had opted to come to the diner to talk since she seemed to be a little nervous about any of the other officers overhearing their discussion. Apparently the case had been closed and she had been ordered to let it go – an order she was finding hard to follow.

"According to the local legend, Ballarat was a very profitable stop for outlaws. There was one particular gang that continually attacked the town, holding the shop owners and local business up and cleaning them out over and over. They hired a man named Hiram Walker as sheriff. He wasn't a law man, but he had a reputation of being a gunfighter and he wasn't afraid of anything."

She took a sip of tea before continuing. "Walker talked the town's men into setting up a barricade and standing up to the gang, but they chickened out on him and ran. He ended up facing the gang alone and was killed. His wife was from a gypsy family or something like that. According to the legend, she cursed the town and when the gang came back, they massacred almost everyone there. A few survived, but they say the ghosts of the people still walk the streets until they confront their cowardice."

Sam frowned. "Confront how?"

"I don't know," She answered apologetically. "Like I said, it's just a story they use to freak out the tourists. I don't even know how much of it is true."

Sam sighed and leaned back in the booth. Sometimes spirits couldn't rest if they had unfinished business. Was that what was happening in the ghost town? If so, what exactly did these dead bodies have to do with it? "Maybe they'll have some kind of local history we can check in the library. In the meantime, I'd like to get a look at the latest victim, if you think you can get me in."

"Shouldn't be a problem," Ellie smiled. She checked her watch. "My friend should be on duty at noon. We can go after lunch."

"Great," Sam agreed. "So…"

"So…" Ellie dipped her head and looked up at his through thick lashes. "What now?"

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "Normally, we'd want to check out the crime scene, but since it's probably already been compromised, I think I should wait for Dean before heading out to the cemetery."

"Sounds logical."

"Right," Sam fumbled for some kind of plan. Outside of firing up the laptop and seeing if there was anything he could find on the ghost town legend on the web, he was stuck waiting for either the local library to open or Deputy Paloma's friend to go on duty at the morgue. He really wasn't in any hurry to excuse himself and bury his nose in the laptop, he was actually enjoying Ellie's company and found himself wanting to continue getting to know her.

Seeing as how he didn't really have much of a choice – and Dean had all but ordered him to spend some time with the young woman – he made a decision to continue their conversation here in the diner until another opportunity presented itself. He doubted if he'd get much more information about the case, but it was a risk he was willing to take. With any luck, Dean would have the whole thing figured out by the time he returned.

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

This was Hell.

Dean squinted up at the blazing sun as he tightened the top of the water jug. He had held out for as long as he could before taking a drink, but the incessant heat from the desert sun had worn down his resilience, forcing him to replenish some of the liquid his body had given up. His t-shirt as well as the long sleeved over shirt was soaked through with sweat. The moisture of the material on his skin gave little relief from the relentless punishment of the scorching desert sun.

He'd turned the hat around and lifted the collar of the shirt in the hope of saving the back of his neck from third degree burns. He could already feel the ache of what promised to be a severe sunburn on his neck and face, and could only hope a passing cloud would take pity on him and drift in front of the blazing ball of light above, giving him a moment of relief with a few seconds of shade.

But, as he looked up into the clear blue sky, he knew no such relief would come.

He'd tried to stay on the road, but the squish and smell of the baking asphalt coupled with the intense heat of the air had started to make his stomach churn. He knew the last thing he needed was to get sick. He needed to keep whatever moisture was in his body if he had any hope of making it back to Lone Pine, so he had forced himself off the road, far enough for the desolate desert vegetation to partially conceal the heavy scent of the asphalt.

As he looked to his left, he was alarmed to discover the road was no longer there. Somehow in his increasing lethargy, he had managed to wander from the lifeline that was the highway into the vast Mojave. Looking around him, he allowed his body to turn in a slow circle, noting with a touch of despair, the vast emptiness of the desert landscape.

Lifting the jug for another brackish mouthful of tepid water, he was startled to discover only a few drops left inside the plastic container. A cursory examination of the jug revealed a small pinhole near the bottom, probably caused by a sharp weapon lying against it in the trunk of the Impala. The water dripped slowly enough from the hole to be barely detectable, but Dean cursed himself for not noticing it sooner. Unfortunately, all the reprimands in the world would do no good as the damage was already done.

Dean Winchester was not a man prone to panic, but alone, lost in a desert, with no water and no idea of where civilization lay, he felt pretty damn close to it. Sneaking another quick peek at the sun, he realized it was almost directly overhead which would give him little help in discerning a direction.

He tossed the now empty jug to the ground and wiped the sweat from his face with a damp sleeve.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "Now what, Winchester?"

He patted his pockets, hoping that maybe he had gotten close enough to a town that his cell phone would connect, but came up empty. The memory of the phone tossed carelessly into the front seat of the Impala caused his to clench his fists.

"Damnit!" he cursed. His foot kicked out at the defenseless plastic jug in irritation, sending it careening across the baked earth before coming to rest against the brown bulk of a bramble bush growing from the cracked desert floor.

He forced himself to calm down. Taking deep breaths, he slowly brought his emotions under control and forced himself to think rationally.

He was in trouble.

His normally finely tuned sense of direction was hopelessly out of its element out here in the desert, forcing him to admit to himself that he was lost. He could wait until the sun moved, which would give him a better idea of which way to go, but that would mean standing out in the hot glare of the sun with no protection for at least an hour.

If he continued on, he would make headway during that hour, but without knowing if he was headed in the right direction, he could make his situation even worse. He was out of water. That in itself sent a tingle of fear through him. If he was lucky he would come upon a cactus or something that would provide some moisture – but then again that brought in to play the Winchester kind of luck.

No, he couldn't rely on finding any type of help from nature.

But he couldn't just stand here and do nothing. Without shade, the sun would bake him, draining any energy he had until there was no alternative but to simply curl up and die, giving up and letting the desert have its prize.

Winchesters never gave up.

Dean swallowed thickly, his tongue moving sluggishly across his chapped lips as his eyes scanned the distance for any clue as to his location. Through the dancing heat, he could just make out the tips of what he knew must be the Paramint Mountains. He knew the mountains lay southeast of Lone Pine, so as long as he kept them on his left, he should be heading in the right direction.

Relief at having a course of action gave him a renewed sense of confidence. He knew he was only hours from the town and, if he could stay on track, he would come across a ranch or small village before he actually came to Lone Pine itself.

He could do this.

Sam would kick his ass for ending up in this situation, but as long as there was the promise of a cold beer and cool sheets at the end, he'd let his little brother rant until his voice ran out.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Dead or Alive

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 3**

Sam flipped his cell closed and stuffed it into his pocket, slightly annoyed with his brother. It wasn't like Dean to not answer his phone. Sam had always figured it was all those years of being ignored by Dad when he was off on a hunt that had taught his brother to always answer his. Of course, he could be simply having a conversation with Old Mac. Maybe the two of them had hit it off and were down at whatever sufficed as a tavern there in Beatty, downing a few brews and hitting up the local talent.

The mental picture of his brother and some rickety old geezer stuffing dollar bills into the garter of some skanky stripper caused him to shudder even as it brought a reluctant smile to his face.

Ellie had taken him to see her friend who had been as eager as the young deputy to show him the information she had gathered on the latest body found in the ghost town. The morgue assistant was a plump girl about Ellie's age with bright red hair and freckles. The two women had been roommates for a time at UCLA and had both found jobs in Inyo County after graduating. Despite their physical differences, Sam had been amused by their interaction, somewhat reminding him of Dean and himself as they continually finished each other's sentences in a relaxed, familiar style.

Despite the official cause of death, it was obvious that both women were convinced that something strange was going on. Neither had come right out and mentioned the fact that Ballarat was a ghost town, but neither had shied away from Sam's questions about the legends and local stories.

The body had been cremated the day before, much to Sam's dismay, but he was able to go through the reports and the assistant's first hand account of the body's condition. There had been photos covering the entire cadaver, but they showed no open wounds and absolutely nothing that could have explained the lack of blood found in the man.

Ellie's friend had seemed a bit disappointed that he had not been able to give her any kind of answer to what she considered a mystery, but the smile and wink she had given Ellie when they had left was enough to let Sam know that she probably wouldn't be holding it against him.

Ellie had needed to get back to the station and check in, leaving Sam to his research. He'd called Dean trying to get an idea of when the older hunter would be returning so that they could make plans to head out to the ghost town, but the call had gone to voice mail and Sam had left a quick message before heading into the local library.

As it turned out, the librarian had been able to show him quite a few books related to the Death Valley area, with information about the desert townships and the nearby Panamint Mountain mines. She was certain she had more information on Ballarat, but was unable to locate it, although she did confirm Ellie's version of the legend. She promised Sam she would try to track down any information specific to the ghost town and get it to him as soon as possible. It was feasible – though not probable -- that some of the people who had been massacred in the town were still walking the streets, killing any tourist or thrill seeker that they came upon. A mass slaughter by an outlaw gang could definitely bring about angry spirits – but an entire town?

They would have to go check the town out themselves, see if they could pick up anything on the EMF before making the assumption that the town was indeed haunted or that any angry spirits were causing these deaths. Even if they did find it to be true, how exactly were they supposed to salt and burn the long dead bodies of an entire town?

Sam shook his head and closed the book, leaning back into the hard back of the library chair. He checked the clock on the wall and pulled out his phone again, quickly scrolling down to his brother's number. He frowned as the call went to voice mail yet again. An uneasy feeling that had been niggling at the back of his head since leaving the diner inched up a notch as his intuition began to tell him that something was wrong.

Snsnsnsnsnsns

Dean batted weakly at the dust that stung his eyes. He'd stopped sweating and somewhere in the part of his mind that was still functioning properly, he knew that was a bad thing. He no longer was aware of his direction, his mind occupied with the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other and keeping his overheated body moving forward. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since leaving the Impala on the highway, but the relentless desert sun bore down on him like a weight, causing his shoulders to sag and his legs to feel like they were filled with lead.

He had already fallen more than once, but he'd lost track of how many times he had slowly and painfully forced himself back to his feet and began to trudge again through the thick, fiery furnace that passed as air. The sun had started its downhill arc, and he was pretty sure he was headed in the right direction, but it had become harder and harder to think as the minutes ticked past and he was no longer sure of anything other than the fact that he had to keep moving if he wanted to survive.

His right foot caught on an exposed root of a large bramble and he went down hard on his knees, his right sleeve tangling in the sharp nettles of the arid plant. Rather than extend his waning energy fighting to extricate the material from the sharp prongs, he slowly shrugged out of the shirt, exposing his forearms to the sting of the potent desert sun. The relief of the removal of the weighted layer on his overheated skin was fleeting as the sun began to bake the newly exposed flesh almost immediately.

In their line of work, they didn't really have much exposure to sun –grave digging and ghost hunting being more effective under the cover of night. So they'd never really had to worry about protecting themselves from the suns harmful rays more than any other normal citizen. And although Sam and Dad both had darker complexions and usually tanned easily, Dean had been graced with fairer skin and freckles and the tendency to burn first and tan later.

He was pretty sure that sucked right now.

Forcing himself back to his feet, he took a shuffling step forward, but his vision began to swim as the waves of heat began to play tricks with his eyes. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, rubbing at them with a swollen hand before opening them and squinting back into the distance.

Huh.

He could've sworn he'd seen… but no. That'd be impossible….

His eyes rolled back in his head as the dry desert earth abruptly rose to meet him. Finally succumbing to the desert heat, Dean didn't stir as the horse drawn buckboard pulled up beside him.

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

"Ellie, I need your help."

The young deputy looked up from her paperwork at the breathless young man before her.

"Sam?" She leaned forward as he reached an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His face was slightly flushed as if he'd run all the way to the station. They'd parted a few hours ago, Ellie needing to get back to work and Sam professing a need to look into some information before his partner returned. She'd left him at the library, agreeing to meet up with them later to show them the ghost town. "What's wrong?"

Sam swallowed as he caught his breath. "Dean's in trouble."

She stood, immediately concerned. "What? How? I thought he was going to talk to Old Mac?"

Sam nodded. "He was. I've been calling him for the past few hours. He should've been there by now."

"Cell reception is pretty iffy out in the desert, Sam. I'm sure he's fine."

Sam breathed through his nose and dropped his head for a moment before meeting her eyes. She took an involuntary step back at the intensity of his gaze. "Ellie, you yourself told me you thought there was something strange going on. There have been a string of unexplainable deaths and now Dean is missing." He took another breath before continuing. "I know you think I'm overreacting, but trust me. Dean is… we've worked together for a long time. I know him better than I know myself. He's in trouble. I know it." Sam wasn't about to explain the feeling that had come over him after he'd attempted to raise his brother on the phone for the tenth time. The call had gone straight to voicemail, causing Sam's internal trouble radar to blip steadily. One call to the old man Dean had been going to see confirmed his brother had never made it to his destination.

Ellie frowned, uncertain as to why the young man she had just met was so worried about his friend. "Sam, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation –"

"Ellie, please." Sam cut her off. "I can't explain it, but something's happened. I called Old Mac, he said Dean never arrived in Beatty."

That got the deputy's attention. The road between Lone Pine and the little Nevada border town cut straight through the Mojave. As long as people stuck to the main highway, there was little chance of anything worse than an overheated engine or a collision with a coyote, but if someone took it upon himself to find a shortcut and got lost… she could see why Sam was suddenly worried.

"Look, Sam, I understand that you're worried, but –"

"No, Ellie. I don't think you do."

She held up her hand in supplication. "I do, Sam. He's your friend and you're worried, I get it. But the truth is that we can't officially consider him a missing person for at least 24 hours." She could see the frustration in his eyes and couldn't help but wonder how close of 'friends' these two men were. "But we can go take a look. Maybe his car simply broke down and he had to wait for a tow truck? If you want we can drive out and take a look."

Apparently, the young man had been hoping she would say exactly that. He took a deep breath and gave her a look of appreciation. "Thank you."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

In Dean's experience, there were two basic ways to wake up in a horizontal position: easy and relaxed, or hard and painfully. Unfortunately, he was much more familiar with the latter. While languishing on a soft mattress under a warm comfortable with an equally soft and warm body beside him would have been the preferable way to re-enter the waking world, Dean was not surprised to find himself uncomfortable, confused and alone.

Experience in waking up without much knowledge of going to sleep, cautioned him against risking movement just yet, and he kept his eyes closed as he tried to take stock of his situation.

He hurt.

That was more than obvious. But it wasn't the sharp, intense injury kind of hurt he'd been expecting. His body ached – not in any specific place, but all over. The only real intense pain was currently drumming inside his head, which made keeping said eyes closed an even more intelligent idea for the moment.

And he was tired. More than tired, he was bone weary as if every inch of his body had been abused and hung out to dry. Since he'd apparently just woken up from sleep, he surmised the rest probably hadn't exactly been voluntary. His mind fluttered in an out of concentration as he attempted to remember what had happened.

Oh yeah.

Desert. Heat. Sun.

Which would explain why he'd just run a marathon, not to mention explaining the searing pain of his skin that was slowly beginning to vie for attention with his throbbing head. For the most part, his skin just felt hot and prickly like he'd been coated with a fine dusting of itchy sand. But the flesh on his arms and the back of his neck as well as his face felt as if it had been baked in an oven for way to long.

He hated sunburns. Always had. Dad and Sam had always managed to tan easily when they had been forced out into the unforgiving elements on a hunt, but Dean had always turned the color of a lobster, his fair skin going from pale to pink faster than he could slather on the sunscreen. Dad had always attempted to temper the unfairness by telling him that it was because he was so much like his mom. Hearing that, and feeling a kind of connection to her – even if it was through the prickliness of pain – had always managed to take some of the sting out of the burn.

Still kind of did.

Getting his wandering mind back on the situation at hand, he could tell he was in a bed. It was soft and he felt like he was being sucked right down into it. There was a stiff, scratchy sheet covering him… and apparently not much else. Although the heat in the room was still oppressive, he could feel a slight breeze and he was thankful that he was no longer baking under the intense desert sun.

As he became more aware, he could distinguish the sounds of someone moving about the room and he sighed.

Sam.

He must not have wandered too far from the road is Sam had been able to find him and haul his sorry ass back to the motel. He was probably in for a few days of mother-henning from his little brother, but right now, Dean was okay with that.

As long as that care and concern included a large, cool glass of water.

Turning his head was harder than he'd expected and the new drum line that took up the beat in his skull pulled a low moan from his parched throat.

"Easy, now. Try not to move too much."

It took a few seconds for the soft, melodious voice to register as well as the small cool hand on his heated cheek.

Okay. That was so not Sam.

His eyes shot open a moment before his sluggish brain could warn him that bright light – hell any light – may not be such a good idea considering. As the sudden brightness slammed against his eyes, he groaned as squeezed them tightly in pain, his right hand fumbling for a grip on something – anything – to help him ride out the assault.

A small, soft hand gripped his and without much thought to the pressure he was applying, he squeezed in an attempt to distract himself from the pounding in his head that threatened to send him back into the darkness.

"It's alright," the voice comforted. "You've been quite ill. You need to relax. Just relax."

He felt a cool, damp cloth slide across his forehead and trail down his sunburned cheek, which immediately began to sooth the ache behind his eyes. He could hear the voice speaking, but was unable to concentrate on the words, simply clinging to the lilting tone as the pain leveled off, slowly becoming something close to bearable.

As soon as the light show in his brain had ceased, he chanced opening his eyes again, this time taking the action much, much slower.

The fuzzy figure perched on the edge of his bed began to take focus and he couldn't stop the lopsided grin that lifted his lips.

Nope. Definitely not Sam.

The girl couldn't have been more than eighteen, her golden curls pulled back into soft flowing ponytail that fell lightly across her shoulder. Her skin was pale with a smattering of freckles across her nose, and her blue eyes sparkled as she watched him patiently.

"Hello," she returned his grin. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Dean responded honestly. After nearly crushing her hand, he was pretty sure she could form a pretty accurate answer to her own question. The scratchy sound of his own voice in comparison to hers surprised him and he slowly moved a hand up to rub at his aching throat.

The girl's eyes widened at the motion and she leaned suddenly to her left, drawing a glass of water from the bedside table. "Here," she helped Dean raise his head, steadying the glass for him as he took a small sip. The sip awoke the monster of a thirst that resided in him and he tried to gulp down the refreshing liquid causing her to pull the glass away. "Slowly," she instructed as if speaking to a small child. When he nodded in understanding, she returned the glass and kept watch as he gradually finished the liquid.

After his thirst had been momentarily quenched, she guided his head back to the pillow. Dean was impressed with her strength as well as alarmed by his lack of it. Without the girl's help, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to keep his head up long enough to drink. The water was working miracles, tho, and he could feel strength returning as the cool liquid spread throughout his body.

He didn't like the feeling of vulnerability he found himself currently experiencing. He didn't like not being able to protect himself. Normally he would be able to rely on Sam to watch his back, but his brother seemed oddly absent and Dean was uncomfortable with the thought of being alone when he was less than 100.

But, then again, he wasn't exactly alone.

His attention was drawn back to the girl who had resumed her perch on the edge of the bed and was now smoothing the scratchy sheet across his chest.

"My name is Grace," she offered with a shy bat of her lashes. "Grace Tyler."

Dean stared at her a moment before remembering his manners. He quickly cleared his throat. "Dean," he croaked, wincing at the harsh sound as well as the sandpaper-like feeling in his throat.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Dean."

"Uh, no," his chuckle came out as more of a choking cough. "Just Dean."

She nodded, her blue eyes dancing with delight. "Then it's nice to meet you, Just Dean."

He grinned and felt himself relaxing a bit in her presence. "Uh, where's Sam?"

Grace tilted her head in confusion. "Sam?"

"My brother."

She shook her head. "We found nobody else. Just you. Was your brother in the desert also?"

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, I just figured… I guess sometimes it's easier to just believe what you need to."

"Mr. Carlson and his son, Michael were the ones who found you," Grace responded. "They said you were just outside of town, over the ridge. They were on their way back from their supply trip to the mines when they came upon you. They could not find your horse, I'm afraid. But hopefully it will find its way itself."

"My horse?" Dean squinted up at her, and image of the gleaming black body of the Impala filling his mind.

_On a steel horse I ride…._

The words to the Bon Jovi song echoed in his head and he found himself snorting a laugh.

"Losing your horse is funny to you?"

"Uh, no," Dean waved a hand, stopping as he suddenly noticed the clothes Grace wore. It was a full-length dress made of a plain blue material, heavy for the heat of the desert. A white apron was tied around her waist that bunched in the folds of her dress as she sat sideways on the edge of the bed. His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the blowing off-white curtains at the small window, the pitcher and bowl sitting atop the antique table near the door. The large wooden wardrobe pushed against one wall looked old as did the high-backed chair that sat next to the bed.

As his eyes surveyed the room, his other senses began to catalog other things that felt… wrong.

The air, it smelled… clean. It was hot and heavy as it blew against his sensitive skin, but the normal scent of civilization that people had become accustomed to was gone. He could smell no asphalt, no engine fumes, no scents other than those of nature mixed with the musty smell of the room and something akin to bleach from the scratchy sheets.

His ears picked up no sound of cars moving on the road outside the open window, no buzz of televisions or hum of any electrical or electronic devices. All he heard was the clopping of what he assumed to be horses along with a rickety clatter of large wheels across the ground. The low drone of voices carried through the window but there was none that he recognized and his heart began to beat faster in his chest.

"Exactly where is 'here'?" he asked cautiously, already suspecting that 'here' wasn't exactly a place he had expected to end up when he left Lone Pine this morning.

Grace smiled. "You're in the town of Ballarat."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 4**

The young deputy watched out of the corner of her eye as Sam slid his phone shut and cursed under his breath.

"No luck, huh?"

He shook his head. "It's just that it's so unlike Dean to not answer his phone."

"He seemed like he was very capable of taking care of himself, Sam. I'm sure he's fine."

Sam snorted a laugh through his nose and shook his head. "He's very capable. He's also stubborn, reckless and completely unaware of his own limitations."

"You think maybe he went out to Ballarat on his own?"

Sam turned to her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He honestly hadn't thought of that. Dean was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. Sure, he'd wanted Sam to have some time to get to know Ellie and he'd been known to take one for the team in the past, but he'd never be stupid enough to check out a possible haunting by himself. Would he?

After Sam had left for college, he had always assumed that Dad and Dean had hunted together, watching each other's backs as they'd always been taught. But, in the last year or so, things Dean has said had made him wonder just how long Dad had stuck around after Sam left. When Dean had shown up in California, he'd been on a solo hunt. Sam had been surprised, but Dean had acted like it was no big deal.

Maybe Dean had gone on to the ghost town alone. If he'd wanted Sam to have some fun, maybe hook up with a girl and let off some steam, he wouldn't have hesitated to do some of the legwork alone. But actually go to a ghost town, where dead bodied have been turning up, in the middle of the desert without backup? Sam was pretty sure not even his reckless big brother was that crazy.

But, then again, this was Dean they were talking about, right?

"Sam?"

Ellie's voice brought him from his deliberations. "Huh?"

"I asked you how long you and Dean have been partners."

"Oh, uh," Sam fumbled for a moment, not wanting to lie any more than necessary to the young woman. Unfortunately, she was more perceptive than he'd expected.

"He's not your partner is he?"

He stared at her as she shrugged, her attention of the dark asphalt highway running under the wheels of the brown Jeep Cherokee. "It's okay," she continued. "You didn't exactly look like forensics specialists when we first met. And after talking with you, it became pretty clear that you were more interested in the ghost story than the actual evidence."

"Look, Ellie," he began, "I can explain…"

"I'm listening," she said, her voice careful and controlled.

Sam nervously ran his hand up and down his jean clad thigh. "Dean's my brother," he explained. "You're right, we don't work for the Forensics lab, but we are investigators. We just investigate things that most people don't understand."

"Like ghost towns?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Like ghost towns," he acknowledged watching her face for in an attempt to gauge her reaction. "I know it sounds crazy, Ellie, but it's true."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she let the information roll through her mind. "So you're what, like Ghostbusters?"

Sam laughed. "Well, not exactly. I mean we don't have power packs or containment grids or anything, but yeah. I guess we're sorta ghost busters."

"So, how exactly do you get rid of them?" She glanced at him before turning her eyes back to the road. "The ghost, I mean."

Sam chuckled, not believing he was sitting in a cop's car, trying to explain his job. "Mostly we salt and burn the bones. An angry spirit can only stick around as long as they have some kind of connection with this world. It's usually their remains, but it can be an object or some sort of unfinished business."

Ellie seemed to be following his explanation. "So you think that maybe the ghosts in Ballarat have some kind of unfinished business?"

"I don't know. You said the legends say the sheriff's wife cursed them. Black magic is pretty powerful occult stuff. Maybe that's part of what's keeping them there – if the town really is haunted."

Ellie was quiet for a moment as she contemplated what she'd heard. "I can't believe I'm saying this but, how do we stop it?"

"I don't know. There's no set rules in how to deal with this many spirits," Sam informed her. "I was hoping Dean would have some idea or at least be able to dig up something in our Dad's journal." At her look of surprise, he grinned. "Sort of a family business."

As she shifted to return his grin, her eyes caught the reflection of the late afternoon sun on something about a mile or so up the highway. The waves of heat still danced off the asphalt, causing the object to shimmer in and out of focus as they sped toward it. Sam followed her gaze, his own eyes widening in relief as they pulled up behind the sleek black car.

They'd found the Impala.

But there was no sign of Dean.

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

A few more glasses of cool water, a quick wash down to purge his skin of the layer of sand and sweat and his own jeans had Dean feeling much more alive. Which was ironic, considering where he currently found himself.

Ballarat.

The ghost town.

Although it didn't look all that 'ghosty' at the moment.

A look out the second floor window had shown him a thriving old west town complete with horse drawn wagons, riders on horseback and people scurrying about in long dresses, bonnets, waist coats and large brimmed hats to deflect the unforgiving desert sun. The main street below was wide, the packed dirt bordered by wooden walkways on either side. The structures that lined the street were basic store fronts with swinging doors that were wedged open to help dispel the desert heat.

The town was far from dead – although Dean knew that it to be just that. There were only two possible reasons for what he was seeing now. Either the desert had claimed him as another victim – and if that was the case, he silently apologized to Sam for what his brother would go through if and when his body was found, or he had been sucked into whatever supernatural occurrence had killed the other men found in the old desert cemetery.

Dean sat by the window, watching the activity below as he let those two scenarios play out in his head.

He didn't feel dead. He wasn't really sure what dead would actually feel like, but he was pretty sure that with his experience he would probably have at least an inkling if he was in fact dead. So, going with his gut, he decided to go with scenario number two.

He was alive and currently stuck in some kind of… time bubble or supernatural hallucination… or something. There had been stories about whole towns reappearing, looking exactly as they had when they'd been alive, but as far as he knew, nobody he'd ever talked to had actually encountered one. He knew he was making quite a few assumptions deciding that this was the ghost town Ballarat come alive, but without any other explanations as to what he as seeing, he had no choice but to follow the thin line of logic and see where it took him.

A soft knock on the door caught his attention. He stood and quickly crossed the room to the door, opening it to reveal a middle-aged woman with dark, flowing hair.

"Um, hi," he said nervously, acutely aware that he was wearing nothing but his jeans. "Can I help you?"

"It is I who may be able to help you," the woman spoke in a deep voice with a slight accent that Dean couldn't quite place. "May I come in?"

As Dean stepped back and waved an arm to allow her entrance, he noted the smooth way she moved as well as the thick scent of spice in her perfume. The woman pulled her gray shawl tightly around her shoulder as she waited for Dean to close the door, then stared intently at him with dark eyes.

After a few moments under her intense gaze, he began to fidget, uncomfortable with his state of half undress.

"I don't usually give free shows, lady…"

The woman grinned at the shirtless young man's bravado. "Maybe you should consider it. I think you'd get quite a nice reaction." Her smile increased as a blush broke out across Dean's face, giving his already pink tinged skin a darker red hue.

"I'll take it under consideration," he snarked. "Is there something you wanted or are you the town's peeping tom… or peeping tomette?"

The woman looked momentarily confused before collecting herself and raising her head almost regally. "I'm here to save your life, Mr…."

"Winchester," Dean responded. His eyes narrowed as his brow furrowed. "Save me from what, exactly?"

"This town," she turned and moved to the window. "You must leave now while you can."

Dean crossed to the bed and sat on the edge. "And why must I do that?"

"Because this town is cursed. And the men who lead it will soon come to you in the hope that you can save them."

Dean nodded slowly, keeping narrowed eyes on the woman. "Save them from what?"

"Themselves," she answered mysteriously. "There is a scurge that is terrorizing the people of this town. Instead of standing up to this, they cower in fear. Many good men have died trying to save them, but they still will not make a stand." She moved from the window and stood in front of Dean. "They will come to you, play on your good intentions, convince you to lead them."

Dean raised his brows, a look of indifference on his face. "Who says I have good intentions?"

She regarded him with her dark eyes. "I am from a gypsy heritage, Mr. Winchester. I have been blessed with the ability to read the good and the bad inside of men. In you, the good heavily outweighs the bad. You will help them. And if you do, you will die. Leave now, while you still have the choice."

The door opened and Grace entered, stopping in surprise at the sight of the dark woman standing at the foot of the bed.

"Mrs. Walker?"

The older woman didn't acknowledge the girl, but gathered her shawl around her and turned to the door. As she made her way through the threshold, she paused and turned slightly, her voice deep and ominous. "Heed my warning, Mr. Winchester."

Grace waited until the older woman had gone, then took a tentative step forward, holding out Dean's dark green t-shirt.

"I cleaned it for you," she said with a nervous smile. "I didn't have time to do a very thorough job, I'm afraid."

Dean stood and took the slightly damp shirt from her outstretched hand. "Thank you," he said, slipping it over his head. The half dried material felt cool and refreshing against his sunburned skin. "Where's the rest of my stuff?"

Before she could answer, a gunshot echoed from outside the window followed by a scream and the sounds of running feet against the boardwalk. Moving quickly to the window, Dean leaned out, his eyes taking in the scene in a glance.

Three men on horseback were in the center of the street, guns drawn and pointing at the citizens of the town who cowered in groups strewn around amongst the buildings and wagons hitched along the railings. One man lay in the dirt, blood slowly leaking from a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

As the gunmen laughed and dismounted, Dean watched in anger as one of them moved toward a woman standing outside the small dress shop directly across from the hotel. The gunman grabbed her by the wrist, causing the package she was holding to fly from her grasp. Her scream was cut off as he pulled her roughly to him and covered her mouth with his.

"Where's my gun?"

Dean turned from the window quickly, his eyes following Grace's outstretched arm as she pointed toward the large wood dresser. He pulled open the heavy top drawer, relieved to find his silver Desert Eagle. Without hesitation, he hefted the familiar bulk of the pistol, checked the clip and flew from the room.

Moments later, he exited the front door of the hotel, his eyes quickly finding the two men who were now terrorizing the woman across the street.

"Hey!" He stepped down onto the dirt street, mindless of his bare feet, his attention focused on the two roughnecks on the opposite walkway.

Both men turned at the call, the first one pushing the woman away from him while simultaneously bringing his pistol up to take aim at the new threat.

He never made it.

The rapid fire of Dean's gun echoed through the street as the man was thrown back, two bullets striking true in the center of his chest. The second man, a bit slower to react than his friend, crouched down to draw his own weapon, but Dean caught the slight movement from the corner of his eye and smoothly shifted his arm, taking the man down before his revolver even cleared the leather holster.

The third gunman, who had remained mounted throughout the ordeal, reigned in his horse and turned it, taking off at a dead run down the street. Dean stepped forward, his arm raised as he sighted his gun on the fleeing man. The target was still within range of the powerful automatic, but Dean was not about to shoot a man in the back – even if that man had in all probability died almost a century before.

He lowered his gun as the rider disappeared around the last building and left nothing but a trail of dust as he hightailed it into the desert. Thumbing the safety, Dean returned the .45 to its familiar spot in the back waist of his jeans and stepped across to the dirt to the opposite boardwalk. As he jumped up to the raised walkway, he stooped to grab the package that lay near the edge and handed it back to the shaken woman.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded slowly, her eyes wide in shock. "Y-yes," she answered breathlessly. She held a trembling hand to her chest and she accepted the offered parcel with the other. "Thank you, young man."

Dean gave her a sincere smile as he nodded, acknowledging her gratitude. He turned his attention to the small crowd forming around the bodies of the two gunmen lying in the street. His stomach twisted at the sight of the blood seeping from the bullet wounds. Both men were dead – that was obvious. Although he had never been squeamish about death – knowing he had to kill to do his job was something he'd learned to live with a long time ago – he still felt the loss of life keenly, adding another weight to the burden of guilt he carried on his shoulders.

The sight of the two dean men made his throat tighten and he had to swallow hard as he faced the results of his actions. He didn't regret what he'd done. The men had chosen their path and come up losers, but he did regret the fact that he'd had to take a life, even though said lives probably didn't even technically exist.

He cleared his throat, immediately gaining the attention of the small crowd in the street. None of the townsfolk seemed the least bit upset about the results of the afternoon spectacle, some of them looking downright pleased at the fact that two men were lying dead at their feet.

"Tell whoever's in charge I'll meet them at the sheriff's office in ten minutes."

Now that he'd become a part of the tragedy of this town, he was determined to figure out exactly what was going on and hoped that whoever passed as the law in Ballarat could help him unravel the mystery of the ghost town. He needed to know what he'd gotten himself into and hopefully find some way to keep himself alive long enough to find his way out.

But first things first… what he needed most right now was his damn boots.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 5**

Sam dug the keychain from his pocket and slid his extra key into the lock on the driver's side door. As he opened it, a blast of heat that had built up in the interior of the car swept over him, forcing him to take a step back.

"Black car in a desert," Ellie gave him a sympathetic grin. "I'd open her up wide and give her a few minutes to cool off before touching anything inside."

Sam nodded in agreement, reaching in to pop the lock on the back door and open it up like a parallel wing to the other.

"Something must be wrong," Sam shook his head, trying to figure a reason for his brother to leave his baby in the desert alone. He reached in and snagged the cell phone lying on the front seat, tossing it up and down for a few seconds, surprised at the intense heat coming off the small device.

"Pop the hood," Ellie suggested as she moved to the front of the car. Sam did as requested, rounded the hood and staring as she leaned over the heated engine. "Looks like the radiator hose blew," she pointed to a large crack on the black plastic hose. "Engine probably overheated. It happens a lot out here." She wiped her hands on her trousers and pulled herself upright. "But all he would've had to do is wait a while, patch the hose and turn back to Lone Pine. He could've made it back – or most of the way, before doing any real damage to the engine block." She looked up at Sam with a shrug. "Unless your brother isn't all that good with cars?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "Dean was born with grease under his nails," he assured her. "And he'd rather take his chances on his own before risking this car. It's all he has left of our dad." Sam sighed, his eyes dropping to the ground. "He died a few months ago and Dean didn't really handle it very well."

"I'm sorry."

Sam gave her a sad smile. "Thanks." He wasn't sure why he was telling her this, but he didn't want her to think his brother was some nutcase who wandered off into the desert without reason. It was okay if Sam believed Dean was a little… off … he just didn't want anyone else to think of his brother like that. "The car was pretty much totaled and my brother almost died himself. He spent a lot of time and energy getting it back to how it was. There's just no way he would've risked damaging it if he could help it."

"It's okay, Sam." Ellie assured him. "I get it. It's a good thing he gave you a key, though. Do you want to start her up and drive her back or do you want me to call a tow truck?"

Sam thought for a moment, not liking the idea of hooking the Impala to a tow truck, but liking the idea of leaving Dean out here in the desert even less. "If it was worth the risk of driving back, Dean would've done it himself. I think we'd better get the tow. That way we can keep searching for him."

Ellie nodded in agreement. "I'll have to radio it in." She pointed at the cell phone Sam held in his hand. "Cell reception out here is a real bitch."

Sam acknowledged her as she turned and jogged back to the Jeep. He dropped the phone back onto the seat and gripped the key tightly in his hand as he made his way around the car, unlocking the passenger side doors to allow the slight breeze to cool the interior.

He leaned back against the heated metal, a slight smile on his face as his mind traveled back a couple months…

_Dean pulled up to the small medical clinic, slipping the big Chevy into park but not cutting the engine._

"_You coming in?" Sam had twisted around, halfway out of the car as soon as he realized his brother wasn't moving. Dean's confession at the side of the mountain road had been painful for both brothers. Dean had finally given Sam a glimpse into the turmoil that had been filling him since the death of their father, and Sam had finally realized how much more guilt his brother had taken onto his already burdened shoulders._

'_I was dead, and I should've stayed dead.'_

_He had, unfortunately, not been able to come up with one word of comfort for his brother, instead he'd remained sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder, hoping that his continued presence and silent support would be enough to prove that as far as Sam was concerned, none of the blame belonged to his brother._

_Eventually, Dean had moved back to the Impala's driver's door, telling Sam to get in so they could find some place to look at his arm. The clinic had been a silent fifteen minute car ride away, with neither brother knowing how to break the uncomfortable silence that had fallen._

"_Dean?"_

"_Um, yeah," the older man cleared his throat, his eyes lowered to his hands, carefully not looking toward his brother. "I have a few things to take care of, Sammy. You go on in and get your hand checked out. I'll be back in a little while."_

_Sam had hesitated for a moment, not really liking the idea of letting Dean out of his sight, but he knew his brother needed some time to think and get his emotions back in check and sitting in a clinic waiting room was not the best place for it._

_It had taken almost three hours to have his hand checked, x-rayed, set and casted and, by the time he walked back out of the clinic, his arm encased in pristine white plaster, he found Dean in the parking lot, perched motionless on the trunk of the Impala._

_Sam slowly crossed the parking lot and leaned against the trunk, folding his cast over his stomach._

"_How's the hand?"_

"_Good as new," Sam held it up like a little kid at show-and-tell. "Or at least it will be in four to six weeks."_

_Dean nodded slowly. "Good." He held out his hand toward Sam. "I got ya something."_

_Sam held out his left hand, frowning as Dean dropped a small silver key into it._

"_What's this?"_

"_A key to the Impala." Dean ducked his head, not meeting Sam's questioning gaze. "Thought we should have a spare. Just in case."_

_Sam turned the silver key over in his palm. "You're giving me a key to your car?"_

_Dean jumped down from the trunk and shuffled to the driver's door. "I doubt if Dad meant for it to be just mine. We're a family, right? I was just older." He quickly pulled open the door and dropped into the driver's seat, leaving a stunned Sam still leaning against the gleaming black trunk._

'_He was your dad, too. And it's my fault he's gone.'_

_Sam swallowed hard. His eyes misting as he recognized the gesture for what it was. Dean blamed himself for Dad's death and by giving Sam the key to his most prized possession, Dean was sharing the last connection he had with his father. The Impala was more than just a car. It was Dean's home. And Dean was telling Sam that it was his home, too, for as long as he wanted it to be._

"The truck's on the way."

Sam turned, jolted out of his memory by Ellie's voice.

"Huh?"

"The tow truck," she repeated rounding the car and stopping on the dirt shoulder beside him. "It'll be here in about 45 minutes. Do you want to wait?"

Sam struggled with his need to find his brother, knowing Dean would never forgive him if he let something happen to he Impala. "Yeah," he decided. "How far is Ballarat from here?"

Ellie turned and raised her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun. "It's about 30 miles across the desert. There's an old mining road that leaded straight into main street. It's not used anymore, but we shouldn't have any problems with the Jeep." She turned back to Sam and tilted her head. "Do you really think he'll be there?"

"Something is drawing men to that ghost town," Sam responded, his voice sure. "Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure Dean might be exactly what it's looking for."

Snsnsnsnsns

Strolling down the street of Ballarat was like an old western come alive. The women smiled and nodded, the men tipped their hats in greeting. Everyone seemed to be going out of their way to cross paths with the new arrival and Dean was beginning to feel like the newest attraction in a bizarre human zoo.

Grace was on his arm, pointing out the various shops and the owners who just happened to be outside either sweeping the already pristine walkway or chatting with some other passerby. She led him down the street to the sheriff's office and gestured him inside.

The minute he stepped through the door, a sense of foreboding settled on him.

There was a small wooden desk to the right of the door with a banister that ran from the entrance to another door in the back corner. The gun racks that lined the walls were filled with old rifles and shotguns that would make any hunter envious as well as a line up of wanted posters and bulletins disclaiming rewards for information on various crimes.

Jails always made him a bit nervous, but the claustrophobia he was currently experiencing was not due to the slamming of any cell door. The room would have been spacious, if not for the half dozen or so well dressed men standing around, their eyes settling intently on Dean.

"Welcome, young man," a rather portly gentleman in a black broadcloth coat stepped forward and held out a hand. "I am Morgan Tyler. I run the hotel you've been staying in. I trust my daughter has taken good care of you?"

Dean glanced at Grace who beamed a smile at him as she stepped forward to her father.

"Uh, yes," Dean responded, his eyes casting around the small crowd and catching the familiar form of Mrs. Walker in the back of the room. "She's been great, thanks."

"It was out pleasure," Tyler continued in his booming voice. "We were quite concerned about you when Carlson brought you in." He indicated the smaller man to his left who wore a white shirt with gray trousers held up by bright red suspenders. "It's a good thing he and his boy cut their supply run short this week."

Dean stepped forward and shook the hand of the man who had apparently rescued him from the desert. "I guess you saved my life."

Mr. Carlson brightened at Dean's admission. "It was the least I could do, young man. Looks like you're doing much better now, though."

Dean simply nodded, his natural suspicion coupled with Mrs. Walker's ominous warning making him wary of these overly friendly men. "I'm fine, thanks." He moved from the doorway, across the room his eyes admiring the antiques hanging in the gun rack. "These are some amazing rifles," he commented as he pulled down a 1873 Winchester Short Border rifle, expertly checked the load then sighted down the barrel.

"You handle a gun very well."

Dean grinned at Tyler. "The name _is_ Winchester," he tilted his head as if that should tell them all they needed to know.

"Yes, so we've been informed." The men seemed to confer quietly among themselves as Dean replaced the rifle in the rack and turned back to them, casually leaning against the wall, eyeing them cautiously as they obviously came to a consensus.

"Mr. Winchester," Tyler cleared his throat before continuing, his voice taking on a formal quality Dean associated with politicians and lawyers. "We, the people of Ballarat, would like to offer you a job if you are interested."

Dean crossed his arms, keeping his expression neutral. If this truly was a cursed town, he could be about to discover what had happened to the bodies found out in the cemetery. "I'm listening."

Tyler stepped forward. "We have been without the services of a sheriff since our former lawman was tragically killed in an altercation with a gang of cutthroats a few months ago."

Dean glanced at Mrs. Walker, who was staring back at him intently. "What happened?"

"This man named Stolas and his gang have been terrorizing our town," Carlson broke in. "Sheriff Walker, God rest his soul, took out a couple of them like you did today, but Stolas, a man with eyes as black as the devil himself, came back and shot him in the back." He glanced nervously toward the Mrs. Walker before continuing. "We should have been there to back him up, but…."

"But what?" Dean hadn't missed the reference to black eyes. Of course it could have just been a turn of speech, but in his experience, descriptions like that usually spelled something a bit more sinister than a simple outlaw on horseback. Of course he doubted if these people would recognize a black-eyed demon son-of-a-bitch for what it was even if they were real and not walking echoes of a long dead community – or for that matter, figments of his overheated imagination.

The men exchanged glances that carried guilt as well as fear. "Mr. Winchester," Tyler took the lead again. "We are business men, not gun fighters. As much as we wanted to help Sheriff Walker, we are not violent men. We are not trained for such matters."

"You're men, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Dean shrugged, not moving from his slouched position against the wall. "You're men. This is your home, your families. Where I'm from a man protects his family, no matter what the cost."

The men could not hold his gaze. "We… we want to protect our homes," Carlson finally admitted. "But, I'm afraid we are lost. We do not have the understanding of this kind of thing to stand up to this evil outlaw."

Dean regarded each of the men in turn before responding. "So what do you want from me?"

"We want you to lead us," Tyler held out a hand in supplication. "We need a man who understands guns, tactics. Someone who is experienced with these things."

Dean nodded slowly. "What makes you think I am?"

Carlson shrugged, a corner of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. "Your name _is_ Winchester."

Dean snorted a laugh. "Touché." He pushed himself from the wall and slowly stepped into the center of the room. "I can help you, but I can't do it alone." He turned, making eye contact with each of the men. "I need your word that you will do as I say, when I say. I need your promise that I can count on each and every one of you."

Tyler swallowed hard and nodded. "You have it. We won't let you down."

The man's eyes shone with gratitude as he shook Dean's hand, and for a moment, Dean almost believed him.

TBC

_There are two more chapters to go, but I will be out of town for the next few days, so I apologize for not being able to post them until Sunday. But I promise to get them up as soon as I get back! Hope ya'll are enjoying my little romp in the old west!_


	6. Chapter 6

Dead or Alive

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 6**

After a brief strategy session in which Dean was given the lay of the town he quickly developed a plan for defense and sent the men off to find the materials needed to build a strong barricade and collect any and all weapons they could use against the outlaws. As they all filed out, shaking his hand enthusiastically and promising their allegiance, Dean began to take the rifles from the wall rack, cracking them each open to check the stocks.

"You still think they're gonna run, don't you?"

He raised his head, his sight trained on the lone figure still standing in the late afternoon shadows in the corner of the room. He perched himself on the edge of the small desk, laying the rifle down next to him as Mrs. Walker stepped forward.

"They are what they are," she said simply, her dark eyes returning his gaze.

Dean nodded slowly, accepting the statement for the truth it held. "And you think because they turned on your husband, they'll do the same to me." It was more of a statement than a question, but the woman nodded in answer.

"My husband was a good man, Mr. Winchester. He was an honest man who truly wanted to help these people." She smiled at the memory of the man, her dark eyes sparkling a little with the recollection. "He tended to see the good in people, even if they didn't always deserve it." She returned her gaze to Dean, the smile softening her face. "The first time I saw you, you reminded me of him."

Dean's eyes widened at the remark and he gave her a crooked grin. "I don't think anyone's ever described me as 'good' before."

She chuckled at his response. "Don't sell yourself short, young man. If you didn't have the heart of a warrior, if you didn't want to truly help these people, I doubt if you would have interfered earlier. I doubt if you'd still be here."

Dean snorted a laugh. "Hate to break it to you, lady, but I don't think I have much of a choice in the matter. Besides," he gave small shrug, uncomfortable with the compliments. "It's kind of what I do."

"Perhaps, but still…" Mrs. Walker stepped closer. "I believe you can help us break this curse."

"So you know what's going on here? You know about the curse?"

She dipped her head in what Dean recognized as regret. "It is of my doing."

"Your doing?"

"Yes," she lifted her head and Dean could see the sadness in her eyes. "At the time… My husband put his life on the line for this town – for these people – and they turned their backs on him and allowed him to be murdered. I was angry, hurt. In my grief, I fell back upon the ways of my gypsy ancestors and cursed them for their betrayal."

Dean pursed his lips as she completed her confession. "And how's that working out for you?"

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing in indignation. "I have my regrets. In my anger, I not only doomed this town to live in this nightmare, I also doomed myself."

He could see she truly seemed to realize how badly she had erred.

"What about all the men who have died out here since then?"

Dean was impressed at her strength when she did not back down from his accusation. "I take responsibility for them as well. It was never my intention for anyone else to suffer." She waved a hand in frustration. "But I am left with no recourse. I cannot undo what is done."

"But you think I can?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The widow approached the desk until she stood only a few feet away from the young man. "My husband was a strong man," she explained. "A man who could… see things others chose not to. He was not a law man by trade, Mr. Winchester. He was a hunter."

Dean's shoulders snapped back and he looked at her with a slight frown. "A hunter?"

She nodded, seeing that he understood. "Yes. As I suspect you are as well. " She raised her arms, holding out a burlap wrapped package she had been hugging to her chest. This was my husband's."

Dean hesitated, but could see nothing threatening in her eyes. Accepting the package, he slowly untied the twine holding it closed, pulling out a well cared for holster and colt pistol. As he caught sight of the pentagram design carved into the wooden grip of the gun, his eyes widened in surprise and he reverently pulled the weapon from the leather, hefting its familiar weight.

At his reaction, Mrs. Walker took a small step forward, a hesitant look of hope on her face. "You recognize this gun."

Dean nodded slowly. "You could say that."

"Then you know its significance?"

Dean nodded again, his eyes running up and down the gleaming metal of the Colt. "It was made by Samuel Colt on the night of Haley's Comet. It was made for a hunter." He looked up. "Your husband?"

She nodded. "My husband's father was Samuel Walker, he was an army general who became friends with Samuel Colt. It was Colt's nephew who gave the gun to my husband. He was told that it was his to care for until the gun's rightful owner was found."

"Your husband wasn't who it was intended for?"

"Apparently, the gun was made for a man who had not yet come into being." The look of wonder she gave him was starting to seriously creep him out. "Someone who would know how to use it. Someone who would know why it needed to be used."

Dean frowned at her implication. "You don't seriously believe…"

"What I believe is that you are the best chance for the people of this town, Mr. Winchester." Her voice had taken on a lightness that had almost completely erased the despair she had spoken with only moments before. "After all these years, you just may be the man who can end this. The man who can lead them to break the curse."

"I thought you said they'd turn on me, too."

She shook her head forcefully. "I'd lost hope… of ending this… of ever being with my husband again. But hope has returned." She placed a hand on his arm, her smile bringing an almost regal beauty to her face. "Dean Winchester, I believe you can save his town."

snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

Sam sighed as he watched the tow truck pull out, make a sharp U-turn and head back across the desert highway to Lone Pine. He ran a hand down his face, grimacing at the oily feel of the sweat as it beaded on his skin. If he was this uncomfortable after less than an hour out in the afternoon sun, he could only imagine how bad his brother was feeling if he was indeed lost somewhere in the desolate desert. As he watched the Impala disappear into the dancing waves of heat, he felt a sense of loss that he couldn't explain, telling himself they would find Dean before the loss could become permanent.

"Hey," Ellie's hand touched his arm and he jumped slightly, unaware of the proximity of the young deputy. "Are you okay?"

Sam swallowed and gave her a quick smile. "Yeah. Just worried about my brother."

Ellie nodded in understanding. "I'm not saying I understand any of this, but if you really think he headed for Ballarat, we should cut across the desert to the old mining road. It would save us about half an hour and we may just get lucky and run across him before we get there."

It was Sam's turn to nod. "Yeah. Sounds good." He turned and headed back toward the Jeep, only to stop suddenly as Ellie turned and pulled a folded manila envelope from the back of her belt.

"Oh! I almost forgot. Marion over at the library was looking for you. She heard Mike was heading out to see me about a tow and decided to send this with him." She handed over the envelope, leaning a bit in her tip toes as Sam ripped open the seal and pulled out a photocopy of an old newspaper article.

"It's about the massacre at Ballarat," Sam informed her as he read. "Apparently, the gang killed almost every man, woman and child in revenge for the killing of two of it's members – one being the leader's brother ; a man named Stolas…" Sam stopped, some memory in his brain tripping at the sound of the name.

"Sam?"

The young hunter shook himself out of his stupor and turned to the deputy. "I don't know. I've heard that name before. I think it's a –" He managed to cut himself off before completing the thought, his eyes going wide as he looked into the innocent face of the deputy. He didn't want to take that innocence away. Knowing that demons actually existed would change everything she knew about the world she lived in. She would never look at things the same – he knew that from experience – and he didn't want to be the one to take her security away.

But the young woman wasn't about to be put off. "You think it's a what? Sam?"

Sam searched her face, finally deciding that her need to know exactly what she was getting into outweighed her need to be protected from the ugly reality of his world. "Stolas is the name of a demon," he informed her, waiting silently for her reaction.

"A… demon," she repeated slowly. "As in old world, hellfire, smite you with brimstone kind of demon?"

"Yeah," he breathed, a small laugh escaping at her rather colorful description.

She stared at him for a moment, her lips pursed in a way that reminded him an awful lot of his brother. "You're serious?"

"Afraid so."

She shook her head as if she needed to clear the cobwebs. "You're telling me you think a real live demon is killing these men?"

Sam took a deep breath through his nose and slowly exhaled as he shrugged his broad shoulders. "No, Not necessarily. I think this gypsy curse has something more to do with it, but it's one hell of a coincidence that a demon's name just happens to be connected to the massacre of an entire town."

"And you don't believe in coincidences."

"Not in my line of work."

Ellie took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "Okay, then we head to Ballarat and what? Can you kill a demon?"

"No," Sam admitted. "But I know a few tricks, and if we do find Dean, he's got a few more. We'll think of something."

Ellie smiled grimly and headed back to the Jeep. "Great," she mumbled just loud enough for Sam to hear. "I feel sooo much better."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

Dean leaned back in the wooden chair behind the desk and took a good look around the small office. He had every rifle and pistol he could find cleaned and loaded, ready for the townspeople to use in the defense of Ballarat. Of course he had no idea if any of them would actually stand against the outlaw gang. If history repeated itself, which is exactly what seemed to be happening, these loyal, upstanding citizens would turn tail and run at the first sign of threat, leaving him to face an entire outlaw gang alone.

A gang that was, in all probability, led by a demon.

That was another little sliver of information he could have done without. But, at least he had the Colt. Mrs. Walker had pointed out the smooth oak box the gun normally rested in, as well as the ten bullets nestled in the slots in the lid. There were three bullets missing, probably fired by Walker himself in an attempt to defeat the demon. When they taken the Colt from the vampires that had killed Daniel Elkins, there had been four bullets left. If this was more than just a figment of his imagination brought on by heat exhaustion, somehow between the death of Hiram Walker and the death of Daniel Elkins, someone had fired those missing six bullets.

Dean so did not want to think about the fact that he was about to do just that.

Before she left, the former sheriff's widow had also handed him something else that belonged to her husband. He held the shiny, silver star in his hand, his lips pursed as he contemplated what he was about to get himself into.

He had no doubt that the other men that had been found dead in the ghost town's cemetery had sat in this very chair, contemplating these very circumstances. Apparently it hadn't turned out as well as any of them had expected.

Of course, he did have a distinct advantage. He knew his job. He did this kind of thing every day. And, even if the town did turn against him, it wasn't like he'd never worked alone before. But, he had to admit, right now, he'd give anything to have his little brother by his side, watching his back.

He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, he'd grown to count on Sam being there. It had hurt when his brother had left for Stanford. A lot – although he'd never let Sam know just how deep his leaving had affected his older brother. Dean had always stood between his brother and father, always been the peacemaker for as long as he could remember. He'd considered it his job to hold their tragic family together.

But he'd failed.

Sammy had left to find a different life. A normal life.

Then Dad had left him, too.

When he'd gone to find Sam in California, he'd had no idea if his brother would even talk to him let alone help him track down their father. He regretted what had happened to Jessica, but the heartbreak had taught Sam what Dean had known all along.

Winchesters were never meant to have normal.

They were meant to have this.

He slowly squeezed the badge in his palm, wincing as the edge of the pin pricked the skin of his hand. It felt real. Whether or not he was caught up in some kind of supernatural version of Back to the Future or this was all just a bad dream brought on by sunstroke or heat exhaustion, it felt real. And, he knew he'd have to see it through if he had any hope of finding his way back to his brother.

He looked up as the door opened and Mr. Tyler stepped into the office. "We're ready, Mr. Winchester." He held his hat in his hand, twisting the narrow brim nervously as Dean responded with a nod.

He looked once again at the star in his hand, a small drop of blood quickly drying on the end of the sharpened fastener. He took a deep breath through his nose and stood, noisily pushing the chair back against the wooden planks of the floor. Without a word he clipped the silver star to the front of his t-shirt and picked up the leather holster housing the Colt. As he buckled the holster around his hips, he couldn't help but feel a small thrill. He'd always wanted to be a cowboy. He just hoped this little fantasy trip didn't end up getting him killed.

TBC

_Sorry about posting so late. I just got back and I rushed right in to get this up. It's still Sunday, so see? I kept my word! The last chapter will be up tomorrow, but I would love tho ear what ya'll think so far!!_


	7. Chapter 7

**_Finally! The conclusion to my epic saga. It's the longest chapter, but there was really no good place to break it, so you get it all in one. A sincere to everyone who sent me their comments and encouragement, especially JackFan2. I absolutely loved how involved you got in this!! For the anonymous reviewers, I have no idea how to get back to you, so thank you very much! I appreciate you taking the time to let me know you were enjoying this story! Everyone else, feel free to give me a holler and let me know what you think!!_**

**Dead or Alive**

**Chapter 7**

The townspeople had managed to build an acceptable barricade across the main road with the help of overturned wagons and large barrels and crates from the livery and general store. It wasn't going to hold out a gang of men on horseback, but it would give them some protection against the raiders. Hopefully they would be able to turn back the attack long enough to come up with a plan B.

As he surveyed the preparations, Dean felt more than heard the people grow silent, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he turned to see the lone rider silhouetted against the orange blaze of the setting desert sun. He took a deep breath, his hand coming to rest on the grip of the Colt. The feel of the pistol sent a surge of energy through him and he stepped forward through the small group of townspeople to the edge of the barricade.

"That's far enough," he called in a low voice, pleased that no trace of the nervousness he felt could be detected in the steady tone.

The rider pulled up, stopping about ten yards from the edge of the blockade. He turned his horse to one side and leaned against the saddle horn, the reigns held loosely in his hands. His face was in shadows beneath the wide brim of his black Stetson, and his long, straight, black hair hung limply across the canvas duster covering his shoulders. He sat for a moment, taking in the barricade and the small huddle of townspeople behind it before turning his attention to Dean.

"So they found another fool to be their savior," he intoned, his voice grating on Dean's ears like gravel. "What's your name, boy?"

"Winchester," Dean saw no reason to lie. "Why?"

The outlaw shrugged. "I just like to know the names of the men I kill."

Dean grinned. "So do I."

The rider tilted his head, a smile of appreciation curving his lips. "The name's Stolas." He raised a hand and tipped back the brim of his hat.

A stray shaft of light filtered across his face allowing Dean to see his eyes flash an oily black.

A demon.

Terrific.

He didn't allow any reaction to show on his face.

"Have we met?" Stolas' eyes returned to their normal color, squinting as he took in the obviously undaunted young man in front of him.

Dean pursed his lips and gave a slow shake of his head. "Nope. "

"Yet you know what I am."

Dean let his disgust show. "I know."

Stolas nodded slowly. "And now, young Winchester, I know what you are." He sat up, waving a hand toward the small group of citizens of Ballarat. "Do you believe these cowards will stand and fight with you?"

Dean simply shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I believe. What matters is what they believe."

Stolas eyes him for a moment before turning to the gathered townspeople. "I want this barricade down. You have ten minutes to decide. If it's still up when I return with my men, we'll burn this town to the ground." Without another word, he reigned in the horse, turned and galloped back out into the desert.

As soon as the demon was out of sight, Dean turned to the small group, the fear they felt apparent on their faces. Nobody moved for a moment as they all stood in the fading sunlight, none of them able to meet the hunter's gaze. Finally, Tyler stepped from the group toward the barricade, his intention obvious. As he reached for the first crate, Dean grabbed him from behind, spinning the larger man and shoving him back into the undercarriage of an overturned wagon.

"Don't," he said, his voice low and threatening. His hands were fisted in the man's suit coat, his eyes blazing as he held the frightened ones of the hotel owner's.

"You don't understand," Tyler pleaded, his own voice trembling, telegraphing his fear. "If we don't do what he says, he'll kill us all…" his eyes drifted to Grace, who was standing to the side on the board walk, her arms tightly wound around one of the bracing beams. "… or worse."

Dean's eyes shifted momentarily to the young girl, understanding Tyler's implications. His anger seemed to suddenly deflate, the full scope of the man's dilemma hitting home. He knew what it was like to do things you didn't want to for the sake of your family. He knew what it took to protect the ones you loved.

But if they didn't stand up to Stolas, if they didn't face their fear, their nightmare would never end.

And neither would his.

He eased his hands away from the man's suit coat and stepped back, turning to address the entire town.

"Look, I get it, okay? Believe me, I do. But this," he waved a hand at the desert where Stolas had disappeared. "This is not going to end if you give in to it." He ran a hand across his hair, struggling to find the words to convince these people of what they had to do. He wished like hell that Sam was here. All the younger Winchester would have to do was give them the earnest expression, pleading voice and puppy eyes and they'd all be lining up to follow him.

Unfortunately, Dean was not the orator of the family.

But he was the one who had always been able to make things work out… more or less.

"This town," he began, his voice low and soft. "could go on just like this. Living in fear of what might happen. None of you will be able to move on, and your families, the people you're trying to protect? They're suffering needlessly because of it." He looked them in the eye, one by one. "You know it's the truth. Deep down, you have to know this is not real. If you really care about your families, if you truly care about his town, you'll do what is necessary to let it, let them, move on." He paused, not knowing if he was getting through to them at all.

"Men have died out here trying to help you. Innocent men with families of their own, families who will never know what happened. My brother, right now, is probably out there searching for me, wondering if I'm dead or alive. Can you live with the fact that you're responsible for all those deaths? That you're responsible for all the pain those families, my brother, will have to go through not knowing what happened to me?" He sighed in frustration. "I don't want to die here. But it's my job to help you. But you need to help yourselves. Or else you'll be trapped in this same nightmare forever."

It was one of the longest speeches he had ever given, and he could only hope it was one of the best received.

The townspeople hadn't moved, they all still stood, heads down as they considered Dean's words. He closed his eyes, his own head dropping in defeat as the minutes ticked by.

"He's right."

Dean's head snapped up, his eyes wide in surprise as he watched Mrs. Walker walk onto the dirt street and cross to his side. She gave him a sad smile then turned to address the rest of the townspeople.

"This young man knew what he was getting into, yet he stayed to help us anyway. I know this is of my own doing. I regret that and will accept your blame. But we cannot continue to turn a blind eye to our own predicament. We must end this. Now. If not for ourselves, then for all those who have given their lives…" she turned placed a hand on Dean's arm, "or are willing to do so, to save us."

Dean felt a presence on his other side and turned to see Grace press against him. "It's time we stood up to our fears," she smiled up at him. "Even though it's easier to believe what you need to, sometimes you need to believe what you have to." She walked to her father and put both arms around him. "Please, father. We need to believe we can end this. We have to try."

Tyler hesitated a moment before lacing his own arms around the small form of his daughter. "You may be right, Grace. But I'm afraid it may be far too late for any of us."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

"Stop! Over there!" Sam pointed to a familiar looking piece of material flapping like a flag in the acrid desert breeze.

Ellie turned the Jeep to the right, angling between the loose sand and brush in a winding route. As they approached the tethered fabric, Sam jumped from the still moving vehicle, landing solidly on his feet and crossing the dry, packed earth in two giant strides.

He pulled the tattered shirt from the bramble bush it was caught on and held it up to the deputy. "It's Dean's!" he yelled to be heard over the rumble of the Jeep's engine. He dropped his arms and let his eyes roam over the desolate desert landscape. "Damnit, Dean. Where are you?" he muttered to himself, searching for any sign of his brother's presence.

A sudden echoing pop rolled across the distance, causing Sam to turn in a circle, trying to determine the direction it had come from.

"That was a gunshot," Ellie announced. She cut the engine and jumped from the driver's side, slowly moving across the dirt to Sam's side, her eyes playing across the distance in a mirror to his.

Two more quick shots echoed in the silence, causing both of them to jump in surprise.

"The ghost town," Ellie whispered as the echoes rolled away and the silence returned.

"How far?"

The young deputy shrugged. "A few miles, just over that rise," she turned to him, her eyes wide with worry. "But we don't know it was your brother, Sam. For all we know it could've been some local shooting at a rabbit."

Sam shook his head, his eyes still trained on the sun beginning to set on the horizon. "No. It's Dean." He held up a hand to stop the deputy from responding. "Don't ask me how I know. I just know." He turned and stalked back to the Jeep. "And if my brother is shooting at something, trust me, it's hell of a lot more evil than a rabbit."

Snsnsnsnsnsnsns

Dean swallowed hard as he watched the group of riders make their way toward the edge of the town. There were at least ten men riding behind Stolas, most of them armed with rifles that were pointed in the air, ready to be aimed and fired at a moment's notice. Stolas smiled as he weaved his horse between the scattered remnants of what was left of the barricade, its pieces carelessly strewn apart and lying useless in the dusty street.

A few of the citizens of Ballarat remained in view, but most peaked out from behind windows and doors as the outlaw rode quietly into the center of town, stopping only a few yards from the lone man with the courage to face him.

"So, Winchester," Stolas made a show of looking around, his hands moving to indicate the empty street behind him. "Looks like you put your trust in the wrong place. It looked like the good people of Ballarat have forsaken you."

Dean narrowed his eyes as he stared up at the outlaw. "Looks like."

"Yet you still stand here, willing to die for them. I will never understand you hunters. Why you would risk your life for these dogs is beyond me."

Dean nodded slowly. "I'm sure it is. But it's actually pretty simple. They're human. And even the lowest most cowardly human is a step above a demon scum like you in my book."

Stolas grinned as he looked down his nose at the young man before him. "I like you, Winchester. It's a shame you have to die."

"Everyone dies," Dean responded. "Even demons."

He suddenly dove to the right, pulling the Colt with blazing speed from it's holster and fired a shot at Stolas. The demon reared his mount, causing the shot to miss its intended target. The horse took the bullet in the neck and began to falter, throwing the demon as it crashed to the ground. Stolas pulled his own pistol and fired a return shot as Dean dove behind a water trough. The bullet impacted the thick wood, gouging a groove into the top and raining wood slivers down onto the young hunter's body.

At the first sound of the gunshot, the people of the town reacted in unison, pulling rifles and revolvers from behind the doors and walls of their hiding places. They took aim as the rest of Stolas' gang rode into the town in defense of their leader. None of the outlaws had been expecting the resistance and at first, the townspeople were able to pick them off, sending some to the ground and others to cover behind the overturned wagons.

The outlaws quickly reacted and returned fire, some finding their targets as a few of the townspeople fell, their hands held to their bleeding wounds. But as each casualty hit the ground, the bodies began to disappear before the blood could even seep into the dry desert dirt.

Dean watched in morbid fascination as the man who'd rescued him from the desert took a shot to the chest, twisting and falling to the ground with a grunt, only to simply fade into nothing a moment later. After a few moments, the sounds of the gun battle ceased and Dean chanced a look around the edge of the trough.

They were gone.

All of them.

The townspeople had carried out the ambush perfectly. Stolas and his gang had ridden right into the center of town, confident the people had run again, leaving Dean alone to fight their battle. In his arrogance, Stolas hadn't considered that he'd just walked right into the center of a planned crossfire. He'd never considered that the people he'd been terrorizing for a hundred years would finally realize that it was their fight to win. That they _could_ win.

Another bullet grazed the edge of the trough, cutting a stinging path against his temple. He pulled himself back, his vision swimming as he dropped his head to the ground, trying to hold back the sudden pain that threatened to steel his breath. Rolling to his back, he squeezed his eyes tightly and breathed through his nose in an attempt to fight the nausea that unexpectedly assaulted him.

His ringing ears picked up the sound of slow footsteps and a moment later he felt a shadow fall over him, blocking the fiery red of the setting sun from assaulting his closed eyelids. He forced his eyes open, only to find himself staring up into the form of the demon, silhouetted against the setting sun.

"So," Stolas' voice no longer sounded human, the echoing tone causing Dean to wince despite his aching head. The demon had his gun trained on Dean's head, his finger pressed against the trigger. "You were able to save them after all, Hunter. Maybe that will give you solace after I send you to Hell."

Dean took a deep breath and, with speed borne of desperation, rolled away from the trough, bringing the Colt up in a steady arc. "After you," he responded coldly. He pulled the trigger twice, the sounds of the shots echoing away into the desert.

snsnsnsnsnsnssnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

Ellie pulled the Jeep onto the deserted street of Ballarat. Most of the buildings of the town were in ruins, a few of the storefronts still upright behind the broken boards of the raised walkway. There were dry desert weeds growing up between the ruins of the buildings, small tumble weeds blowing across the barren dirt, catching on the pieces of broken wagons and wooden railings that littered the main street of the ghost town.

As she slowly pulled the vehicle to a stop, Sam opened his door and stepped out onto the hard packed dirt, his eyes quickly scanning the area for any sign of his brother. A slight movement to his left caught his attention and his sight focused on the shadow behind the over-turned water trough. As he squinted through the encroaching darkness he could just make out the dark green material of Dean's t-shirt.

"Dean!"

Without bothering to close the door of the SUV, Sam bolted toward the far side of the street, sliding to his knees as he came within reach of his brother's prone body.

Carefully, he rolled the unconscious man to his back, supporting his head against his leg as he slapped the sunburned cheek gently.

"Dean, man, come one. Wake up, Dean!" He breathed a sigh of relief as the older man emitted a low groan, his head moving to reveal a shallow gouge of dark, congealed blood near his left temple.

"Here," Ellie slid to a halt behind him, her boots kicking up dust from the dry desert earth. She opened the lid of the canteen and held it out to Sam, then dropped to her knees as he poured some of the liquid into his brother's open mouth.

Dean immediately began to cough as the water touched his parched throat, his face scrunching in pain and his hand rising to fist in the sleeve of Sam's shirt.

"Easy," Sam soothed, lifting the canteen to his brother's chapped lips as soon as the coughing had settled. "Just take it easy, Dean. I gotcha."

The familiar voice seemed to ease the older man's discomfort and he allowed the canteen to be tipped, savoring the cool water as it quieted the fire in his mouth and throat. After a few small sips, he opened his eyes, relieved to see the face of his brother floating above him.

"Hey," Sam smiled, his eyes shining in relief. "Never really took you for a sun worshipper."

"I'm all about the bikinis, dude." Dean's voice was barely a whisper and Sam held up the canteen for him to take another careful sip.

"Yeah, well there's no beach around here, man. I think you're gonna have to have your sense of direction checked."

Dean nodded and grinned, wincing as one of the cracks in his dry lips split and began to bleed. "My sense of direction is fine. I was heading toward the ocean."

"And you would've made it," Ellie chimed in. "In about another 500 miles or so."

"See," Dean coughed roughly. "Internal GPS is perfectly fine."

"Right," Sam laughed, his hand moving to touch the bruised skin around the gouge in his brother's head. "This looks like a gunshot wound," he said quietly, his eyes connecting momentarily with Ellie's before he returned his attention to his brother, noting Dean's eyes beginning to drift closed again. "Hey, hey, Dean. Stay awake."

"Tired, Sammy."

"I know, man. I just need you to stay awake a little longer."

"S'okay, Sam. Saved 'em. Used the Colt."

Ellie placed a hand on Dean's cheek, frowning at the dry heat of his skin. "He's way to hot, Sam. Probably suffering from heat stroke. We need to get him out of the heat and cooled down as soon as possible." She stood up quickly. "I'm going to move the Jeep closer. If we can get him in the back and back to Lone Pine quickly, he should be okay." Without waiting for a response, she gave Sam a pat on the shoulder then moved quickly back toward the parked vehicle.

"Hey, Dean," Sam shook his brother slightly, eliciting another groan. "Come on, man. What about the Colt?" On top of the heat stroke, he suspected his brother had a concussion from whatever had caused the wound on his head and he needed to keep Dean from falling asleep until they got him back to town and thoroughly checked out.

What did the Colt gave to do with this? The gun had disappeared when Dad had died. Although they suspected it was now in the hands of the Yellow Eyed Demon, they really had no clue what had happened to it. For Dean to bring it up now… either something unbelievable had happened or the desert had truly fried his brother's brain. "Dean, talk to me. What about the ghost town? What about the Colt?"

"It was a demon, Sammy." Dean coughed a bit as his voice scraped against his throat. "The town finally stood up to it. Walker's gun… the Colt…"

"Dean!" Sam could tell his brother was fading and slapped him a few times lightly on the cheek. "No sleeping." He splashed some of the water across his brother's face, getting an instant reaction. Sam simply smiled and placed a hand on his forehead to hold him down. "Easy, just needed you to wake up, dude. No sleeping on the job." He ignored Dean's weak look of contempt. "What do you mean the town stood up to the demon? Dean, there's nothing here."

Dean opened his eyes fully at the statement. He struggled a moment to get his arms beneath him and, with Sam's help, was able to push himself up from his prone position, swallowing hard as the horizon tilted for a moment. He felt Sam's arm circle his shoulder, keeping him upright and bracing him from crashing back to the hard ground. AS soon as the world stopped spinning, he chanced a look at the town, his breath catching in his throat as he looked out upon the decay of the old wooden buildings.

Sam was beginning to worry as his brother began to list sideways. He caught him just as Ellie pulled the Jeep close to them on the far side of the trough. "Dean?"

Dean's eyes roamed across the ruins of what, in his mind, was a thriving western settlement. He strained to hear the sound of the horses clopping along the street, or the whirring of the wheels as the wagons rolled along. But all he could hear was his own ragged breathing. He snorted a soft laugh through his nose, knowing that it was all gone – if it had ever been there at all. He reached up, placing the back of his hand against his brother's chest and giving him a weak tap. "It's okay, Sammy. Job's done."

Sam simply nodded, his face a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Good, Dean. I want to hear everything. But right now, let's get you out of here and back to a nice air-conditioned hospital, huh?"

Dean raised his eyes, not even arguing about the proposed destination. "Air conditioning sounds good."

Sam smiled. "I'll bet."

As Ellie opened the back door, Sam stood, stooping to help Dean unsteadily rise to his feet. He placed a hand around his brother's waist and slung a limp arm over his shoulder, maneuvering the injured man around the wooden trough and to the back door of the Jeep.

As they approached the SUV, Dean placed a hand against the open door frame and turned to Sam, a frown on his face. "Dude, my car. The Impala's –"

"Already taken care of, Dean," Sam interrupted. "The car's fine." He motioned with his chin to the gash on his brother's head, reaching out a hand to steady the older man as he swayed dangerously. "Which is more than I can say for you."

"I'm good," Dean replied with a grin. "What do you say we look for our next job in, I don't know, Alaska?"

Sam simply shook his head in fond exasperation and gently pushed him into the back seat of the Jeep. Dean leaned his head against the cool glass of the back window as Sam and Ellie took their seats in the front, his eyes capturing a last look at the deserted town. He still wasn't sure if it had been real or just a figment of his imagination, but he felt confident the ghosts of Ballarat were now at peace.

As for the Colt. He had fired three of those six missing bullets. He had no idea if the gun that had felt so solid in his hand was in fact the actual Colt they would find a hundred years later, but the balance of the weapon, the feel of the grip and the smooth release of the bullet had felt right. The legend says that the gun had been made for a hunter. Maybe, just maybe, it had found it's rightful owner again. He could only believe that the gun, wherever the hell it was, would turn up again.

Ellie shifted the vehicle into drive and with a nod from Sam, began the long trek back to Lone Pine. As the Jeep pulled out, Dean's eyes were drawn to the hard packed dirt near the trough where the last remnants of the setting sun caught the edge of a tarnished silver badge half buried in the dry desert sand.

Snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsns

"There's still one thing I don't get." Deputy Elizabeth Paloma sat on the edge of the chair near the door of the motel room, her eyes watching the man who was propped up against the mound of pillows on the far bed.

Dean turned his head and returned her gaze. They had made a stop at the local hospital at Ellie's insistence. He had been given intravenous fluids and they had stitched the wound on his head, but he had insisted on returning to the motel despite the doctor's recommendation that he be admitted for observation. He had even agreed to spend the evening resting in bed as long as Sam didn't hover. It had been his idea for his brother and the pretty deputy to go to dinner – if said brother would ever get done primping and escort the nice your lady out.

But, until Sam was showered and shaved and smelled like a walking flower bed, it was Dean's responsibility to entertain the deputy, so he raised his eyebrows innocently.

"Only one thing?"

She smiled. "Good point." She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear and leaned forward, the loose ends of her chestnut locks brushing her bare shoulders. She had taken the time to change into a simple yellow sundress that tied halter style behind her neck and Dean had to admit, he appreciated the view. "I still don't understand why those bodies were drained of blood." She shook her head the tan skin of her forehead puckering in a frown. "Let's assume for now they died in the same weird vision thing you were caught in, what exactly happened to them?"

Dean shrugged and pursed his lips, lying his head back against the pillow. "I don't know." He admitted. "As near as we can figure, they must have been shot by the demon and bleed out in the vision. If that happened to them there…" he let his voice trail off, hoping the explanation would be enough for the young deputy.

Dean had been surprised at how much Sam had told her about them and their lives. He hadn't gone so far as to tell her their real names, and it was obvious she knew they were still keeping secrets from her, but apparently she had seen and heard enough to know they weren't the bad guys and it seemed to be enough for her.

Besides, she obviously had the hots for his little brother, and who was he to let a simple explanation of a haunting get in the way of young romance?

Sam finally opened the bathroom door, tugging at the hem of his white button up shirt. The shirt was a little short on his lanky body, but judging from Ellie's smile, it wasn't going to be a problem.

"I'm ready," he announced as he tossed his dirty clothes toward the duffle back on the floor beside the bed.

Ellie stood, giving him a pretty smile. "Then we should probably get going. This is one of the best Italian places in town. It fills up pretty fast."

Sam nodded and grabbed his cell off the dresser before crossing the room and opening the door for Ellie.

"Are you sure you don't want to join us?" Ellie looked back at Dean, her eyes sincere with the question.

"Or we could bring you something back." Dean shifted his eyes to his brother, whose hurried offer was a bit less sincere than the young woman's. He laughed softly and snuggled down into the soft pillows.

"No thanks, Ellie. You two have fun. I'm just gonna catch a movie and get some z's like the doctor ordered."

"Okay. Bye, Dean."

He waved a hand, smirking as he caught the look of relief on Sam's face.

Before he pulled the door closed, Sam stuck his head back in, a slight expression of guilt pulling at his mouth. "You sure you're gonna be okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam. Go. Eat. Just bring me back some lasagna and we'll call it good."

Sam gave him a grateful grin and nodded eagerly before softly closing the door.

Dean shook his head, chuckling at the eagerness his brother had shown at the chance of spending a little more time with the lovely deputy. He picked up the remote and clicked on the television situated on the stand at the end of the bed. He frowned as the familiar theme from one of his favorite movies, Silverado, reverberated through the small speaker, watching for a moment as Kevin Kline faced off against Brian Dennehy in the deserted old west street. His chest grew tight as a moment later he noticed he'd forgotten to breathe, the showdown on screen hitting a bit too close to his memories of the much more personal one in Ballarat.

With a swallow of his suddenly dry throat, Dean quickly hit the button, changing the channel to a brightly colored episode of South Park. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as the one-dimensional little cartoon kids argued with the equally one dimensional mad scientist. Grinning at their antics, he let his body relax as the cool air and the crisp sheets slowly lulled him to sleep.

The End


End file.
